It is a solemn thought that life has no ending, but that some day there will be a season of harvest and a time of accounting, when each man must render a report of his stewardship and be rewarded or punished for the deeds done in the body. In that dread hour of settlement there will be no respect of persons. The rich and the poor, the great and lowly, must subject their moral natures to the same inflexible standard. The winnowing fan of God’s justice will spare not the proud nor powerful. They will all go to their own place. The chaff from the wheat, the sheep from the goats will be forever separate.
He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still: and he that is righteous, let him be righteous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still. Rev. 22:11.
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY FRED’K L. CHAPMAN & CO.
PAY DAY.
O GRAVE! WHERE IS THY VICTORY?
Death has no terror for the child of God. Neither the damp sod nor the granite tomb can hold the free spirits of the children of faith. We commit them to the earth and shed the parting tear and are too prone to fancy that the cold ground holds the object of our love; but it is only the cast-off covering of the soul that we bury. The real self, the indestructible and everliving spirit, has been caught up into heaven and long before the hearse and the cortege of weeping friends have left the tomb, the glad song of the departed one has swelled that of the angelic host in the refrain, “Death is swallowed up in victory.”